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Once is an Incident
“Bobby said you didn’t turn in your latest paper on time.” Stiles jerks up from where he was absorbed in his video game, his character on the screen immediately dying and the game over screen interjecting. Noah cocks an eyebrow at his behavior, but Stiles can’t do much more than gape in confusion.
“Who’s Bobby?” he asks, brows furrowed. The sheriff takes a step back, lips pursing and what could almost be a pink tint dusting his cheeks. Stiles’ brows furrow further.
“Coach,” Noah corrects, tone brooking no argument. Stiles can feel his eyebrows climbing into his hairline and he levels a look of disbelief at his father, but chooses aptly not to question it. Perhaps the familiarity lingers from the little league summer camp Stiles had attended years ago, before his rampant un -athleticism really took hold.
“Well,” Stiles starts, tossing his controller off to the side and fully turning towards the older man, offering his full attention. “Did Bobby also mention that I went in earlier this week to talk to him about it?” A pout threatens to pull at the sheriff’s lips but he doesn’t let his cool facade break. He squints suspiciously at his son.
“He said you turned a paper in early on a completely different topic than was assigned.” Stiles’ jaw drops and he flounders for an excuse.
“It wasn’t- I mean, I guess it could be taken as- No! It was totally on topic!”
“Mhmm,” Noah hums, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s still in uniform making the expression even more intimidating. Stiles drops his gaze to the floor and flushes, playing with his hands for something to do.
“Okay, well, maybe it was a more interesting topic,” he defends with a shrug.
“While that’s all well and good,” the sheriff acquiesces, dropping into the armchair kitty corner to the couch. “When it comes to school assignments, you do need to write about what you’re told.” Stiles sighs and flops backwards onto the couch, sprawling his legs over the arm of it and covering his face with his palms.
“I know,” he admits from the safety of his cover. “That’s why I turned it in early. I wasn’t sure if it was gonna be too far outta left field. Coach said it wouldn’t be a problem if I needed a couple extra days to redo it.”
“He also said he’d have to deduct ten points because it’s late,” Noah adds. Stiles sighs dramatically then groans.
“I know,” he whines, rolling over so he’s draped across the couch on his stomach. The sheriff stands up and walks over, lowering himself to clasp a palm over Stiles’ shoulder, reassuringly.
“I know you’re smart, kid, believe me I do,” he starts, squeezing gently. “And I think you’re gonna be able to do anything you wanna do when you graduate. You’ll probably leave me in the dust.” He pauses and huffs a melancholy laugh.
“But until you’re out there in the big, bad world, you gotta play by the lay peoples’ rules.” Stiles sniffles into the cushions as a form of acknowledgement but refuses to lift his head. Noah stands back up, patting Stiles’ back a few times as he does. He waits a moment before turning to head up the stairs and get changed into something more comfortable, now that he’s home for the day.
“Also, Bobby said he’d waive the missing points since you’re technically writing two essays.” There’s a loud thump as Stiles presumably falls off the couch. Noah smiles and chuckles to himself, continuing his climb up the stairs. He pretends not to hear as Stiles cheers to himself and leaves his son to his games for the night.
Regardless of this little essay mishap, which is far from the first, he has a lot of faith in his son that he’ll pull it together. His grades are nothing to sneeze at despite the occasional foray into wildly off topic subjects so Noah believes he has no reason to really be worried.
*****
When his dad finally makes his way home after the parent teacher conference, Stiles expects to be sternly reprimanded. While his belated paper submission managed to get back on track, his answer for the essay question at the end of his economics test somehow managed to go completely off course.
In addition, there was the whole animal attack situation and the fact that he’d almost lost his only remaining parent.
Again.
Even Stiles himself was feeling a little stressed out, so when Noah walks in the door, pink cheeked and smiling, he’s immediately on edge.
“So,” Stiles greets from the couch where he’s been sitting in almost total darkness. There’s a light on in the kitchen but it only just reaches the living room. The sheriff startles, and while he doesn’t automatically reach for his gun, Stiles knows he maybe wasn’t that far off. “How was the conference?”
“Good, good,” his father nods, purposefully schooling his expression. He hangs his coat by the door and goes to make his way upstairs.
“Anything, uh, interesting happen?” Stiles questions, refusing to let it go. Noah pauses on the first step.
“No, no,” he tries to reassure. “Everything was fine.” He freezes and immediately takes a step back, realizing how out of character he’s being. “Well, you know, there was the whole, mountain lion thing. But Argent was there and managed to take care of it, and no one was seriously hurt, so.”
“Uh-huh,” Stiles agrees, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He’s not sure, but he feels like he can see a bead of sweat threatening to bead at his father’s temple. The man offers a pursed-lipped smile, waiting half-perched on the lowest stair. “There isn’t anything, I dunno, about my classes maybe, that you’d wanna talk about?”
Stiles folds his arms over the back of the couch, watching his father. Noah licks his lips, clearly flustered.
“Well,” he starts, then pauses, furrowing his brows before an idea visibly pops into place. “Oh yeah! Cupcake said you went a little off topic-”
“I’m sorry, you had cupcakes?” Stiles interjects loudly. Noah nearly flinches back, startled.
“Huh?” he grunts.
“Cupcakes?!” Stiles depends, louder. He tosses his arms in the air. “I know I shoulda been with you for this thing. It’s not fair that my grades are too high to accompany you. I’m coming with you next time.”
“Stiles,” Noah tries to warn, hands moving to rest on his hips.
“No!” Stiles demand, frowning. He stands up from the couch and walks up to his dad, pointing an accusatory finger at the center of the older man’s chest. “A cookie I might have been able to overlook. I coulda packed an extra baggie of carrot sticks or something in your lunch tomorrow. But a cupcake?”
The teenager frowns and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Dad, you need to be better about eating better.” Noah frowns at his son.
“Kiddo,” he mutters quietly before reaching out and pulling Stiles into a tight hug. “Son, you don’t need to worry about that, I promise.” Stiles wraps his own arms around his father even tighter.
“Somebody has to worry about you, too,” he mumbles into Noah’s shoulder. The sheriff sighs and squeezes in return.
“No, I mean I didn’t eat any cupcakes, that’s not what I meant.”
Stiles frowns and pulls back to look his father in the eye.
“Then what were you saying about cupcakes? I assumed it was a freudian slip because you ate something you knew you shouldn’t have.”
The sheriff immediately flushes bright red.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says quickly, dropping his arms and separating himself quickly.
“Is that,” Stiles pauses, an uncomfortable frown marring his face. “Is that a pet name? Are you seeing someone?”
“Don’t worry about it, Kid,” Noah says again, immediately stomping up the stairs as quickly as he can.
“Wait, Dad, who’s Cupcake?” Stiles calls up behind him. Noah slams the door to his bedroom in reply.
“Dad!” Stiles berates behind him.
He doesn’t receive any further response.
Twice Is a Coincidence
Stiles has overheard a lot of concerning conversations in his life. Being the son of the county sheriff with a penchant for mischief a mile wide, he’s definitely heard more than a few that he was absolutely not supposed to hear. Stiles thinks, sometimes, that maybe he should feel guilty about the number of police related phone calls he deliberately taps into, especially considering the sensitive information he overhears that he often wishes he hadn’t. Generally, that has more to do with their ninety year old neighbor Mrs. Jones that keeps calling in to the station to flirt with his dad, and how sometimes the messages just get forwarded home to their landline.
At least, Stiles thinks, she isn’t afraid to put herself out there like some other people her age. That said, Stiles really doesn’t need to know exactly what his neighbor thinks she should do with his father’s underwear.
Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on one’s perspective, these uncomfortable messages aren’t enough to prevent Stiles from continuing to listen in on his father’s conversations. Therefore, he is primed and ready to intercept another call when the landline rings in the middle of him doing calculus homework Friday night.
His father had gone upstairs twenty minutes after they’d finished eating dinner to get ready to go out again. At first, Stiles had assumed one of the deputies had had to call out sick, since his father didn’t work voluntary doubles very often. Unless, of course, there was a serious case afoot.
Stiles hadn’t heard anything new on the wolfy front yet, however, so he hadn’t thought much of it. Then the phone rang.
For whatever reason, Stiles had opted to do his homework on the dining room table that night. He takes a moment to put down his pencils, knowing by the silent ringer that his dad has answered the phone. He’s done this enough time to know exactly how many seconds need to pass before his father is too absorbed in the conversation to hear him lift the earpiece from the kitchen wall and click in.
He counts down the seconds in his head as he toes his way over on socked feet, ear cocked to the ceiling and trying to track his father’s movements. Deeming it long enough, he carefully yoinks the receiver off its hook and holds it to his ear.
“See you in a bit, Cupcake,” he hears his father’s voice snark before the line goes dead. He stands there for a moment, jaw slack with shock. Before he can really process the call further, he hears the repetitive thumping of his father climbing down the stairs, so he hastily hangs the phone back up and darts to his seat. He’s just flying onto the cushion, absently flipping a page, when his father rounds the corner into the kitchen.
Stiles looks up, heart pounding, and face slightly flushed. His father squints down at him, but doesn’t comment on the fact that he clearly nearly caught Stiles in the act, most likely because he doesn’t know what the act was .
When his dad closes the front door behind him, Stiles finally breathes a sigh of relief and glances down at the book in his lap. He frowns when he sees the words are upside down so he closes it and flips it to the front, only to realize in his haste he’d picked up the copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting his father had relented and bought him after his third grade teacher had a baby. Flushing, he shoves it back beneath the coffee table where he’d unceremoniously yanked it from and stands to attention, quickly leaving the room.
*****
On Sunday night, football takes over the Stilinski household’s living room. Stiles isn’t a huge fan, especially of the college games, but Noah is absolutely hooked and does his best to never miss a game. Despite his general lack of interest, Stiles absolutely relishes the time spent with his father, yelling at the screen, eating snacks, and berating the referees when whatever team they’re cheering for gets a penalty.
Because of this, football night remains very firmly in the ‘Stilinskis only’ category of tradition. They don’t even invite the McCalls over during the superbowl, the biggest and most watched football-holiday of the year, choosing instead to stay in and watch it together, just the two of them. This is why, when the bell rings at three minutes to kick off, Stiles is shocked when his dad gets up to eagerly answer the door, escorting someone else inside.
Stiles eyebrows climb to his hairline as he looks between his father’s sheepish expression and the manic grin of his coach as wipes his shoes on the door mat and looks up at the cheer on the widescreen.
“Hey!” he greets in his typical, aggressive disposition. “Just in time for kick off! Let’s go!” He almost ignores the two Stilinskis as they stand in the doorway as Coach Finstock cheers at the screen from behind the couch. Stiles turns to his father with a look of betrayal. This has always been their thing, one of their only traditions that existed before the death of Stiles’ mom, and he’d always considered it sacred. He’d thought his father had too. Noah frowns for a moment before reaching out, clasping a hand over Stiles’ shoulder.
“Just for tonight,” he explains, nodding his head towards their unexpected guest. “A tree fell and knocked over some powerlines, so the cable for his whole block is out. It won’t be repaired until tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning,” Stiles repeats, looking back over to where his coach stood, hands braced on his hips. After a long moment, Stiles sighs. “Fine.” Noah perks up visibly before deliberately trying to cool his enthusiasm. Stiles squints in suspicion.
“He can’t have any of my cheeseballs though,” Stiles comments, walking back into the living room and grabbing the large jar of cheesy corny balls.
“Trust me kid, I really don’t want your balls,” his coach comments, laughing. He finally walks around to the other side of the couch, dropping onto the corner, as if he’d been waiting for the acceptance. Noah trails in after, smiling fondly at them both.
Stiles crosses his legs and pulls them up onto the couch to more effectively cradle the snack he’s holding, wrapping himself around it as if for protection.
“I don’t believe you, everyone wants my balls,” he slurs through a mouthful of neon orange, spraying a few crumbs as he does. Noah looks momentarily horrified, but before he can apologize to Finstock, the man has his head thrown back in raucous laughter.
“Sure they do, kid, just like everyone can run faster than my poor, deceased grandma.” Noah eyebrows lift into his hairline as he looks between the two people on his couch before shaking his head and deciding that knowing isn’t really worth it. He scoots past Finstock’s legs and drops onto the couch between them, reaching out to grab the remote. He unmutes the screen just in time for their team to cheer and line up for the first kick off.
“Damn it, missed the coin flip,” he curses. Finstock leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, eyes glued to the screen.
“Luck is for wusses,” he comments, pointing at the players that’s running towards the ball to kick it. “The important thing is knowing if the winner of the coin flip chose offense or defense.” Stiles frowns at his coach, then frowns at the screen as their team kicks the ball for the other team to catch and start their run.
“Why does it matter?” he asks around another mouthful of cheeseballs. Noah shoots him a relatively constipated look, but Stiles refuses to feel bad for it point blank. Finstock grins but his eyes don’t leave the screen.
“Football is only fifty percent being good at playing,” he explains, watching the enemy team somehow make it halfway across the field before getting tackled with a first down. Stiles winces in sympathy before finally wiping his fingers off on his jeans.
“What’s the other fifty percent?” Somehow, Coach’s grin grows even wider.
“Chess.” Stiles stares at him, wondering if this is finally the moment when he proves his coach is truly, clinically insane.
“Chess,” he repeats, doubtfully, but when he looks over to his dad, he’s nodding along in agreement.
“Exactly,” he says, looking between Finstock and the TV. “It’s all about strategy and outmaneuvering the other team.” Stiles stares between the two for a long moment before looking back at the screen and paying more attention to how the players move around each other.
“Huh,” he says, watching as the quarterback from the other team makes to toss the ball. A few of the players guarding him dart off in the direction he tossed, and once they do, he tucks his arms down and rolls away, running off in the opposite direction. The players that stayed near him try to pursue him, but the guys making him his defensive wall of meat manage to hold them back long enough for the quarterback to dart around and jump over their shoulders, making another first down.
He bluffed their team and snuck around. The camera pans to their team’s coach on the sidelines pulling off his hat and tossing it on the floor. Stiles snorts.
“You’re seeing it now, yeah?” Finstock asks, startling Stiles out of his thoughts. He nods, at first just to be polite, and then decides he really does. “The players gotta be great, but more than that, they gotta work together.” Noah nods along, but he’s focused on the game, less so the conversation. Stiles is convinced his Coach sees more than any one man really should be able to, because his grin gets broader, almost baring his teeth when he agrees.
“And more than anything,” he says, leaning over the knock shoulders with Noah. Noah smiles almost affectionately but doesn’t let his attention stray, so Stiles figures maybe they’ve been friends for longer than he’s realized. “Football is a game for the coach.”
*****
Stiles ends up spending half of the game watching his father interact with his teacher rather than watching the players on TV. There’s something about how they behave that’s niggling in the back of his head, but he’s really not sure what it could mean. A few days after the interruption of father-son bonding, he decides to go digging through his father’s old yearbooks, blowing off a thick layer of dust from the lack of reminiscing.
He flips through page after page until he finally gets to the sports section, expecting to find the two adults on the same team somewhere, but he never does. He finds a photo of that year’s football team, and there’s his dad just like he’d expected, but no Finstocks are credited underneath. He bites at his lip before putting the book away, dissatisfied.
He’s sure he can get to the bottom of whatever is nudging at the back of his head, he just has to bide his time.
Three Times is a Pattern
Stiles comes home from school on a Wednesday, extremely grateful that lacrosse practice is only after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays because for whatever reason he had a terrible time sleeping the night before and had been looking forward to a nap on the couch as soon as he got home. As he pulls into the driveway, however, he’s startled to see a package waiting on his front step.
Too much time watching cop procedurals on TV has him instantly on edge, especially since he hasn’t ordered anything online lately and his father is absolutely incompetent at using the computer. He turns the key in his ignition and turns off his Jeep’s engine, still idling in his seat. He drums his fingers over the steering wheel for a long moment before finally caving and letting himself out. He leaves his backpack in his car, only keeping his keys with him as he slowly and carefully approaches the unassuming brown paper package.
He leers over it, trying to confirm the return address without getting too close.
“Huh,” he mutters out loud, brows pinching. It’s addressed to his dad, alright, though for whatever reason the actual address is their neighbor’s. There’s a little note written in sharpie on the box that says ‘Oops! Meant to bring this by earlier, sorry I missed you!’ He isn’t sure whether that means it was delivered elsewhere on purpose or not.
What really gets him, however, is the sender. It’s relatively local, in that it’s a California based address. It also doesn’t appear to be a commercial one, since it isn’t even a P.O. Box. There isn’t a name, either. It says Charlie’s Custom Engravings, INC. He frowns, pulls out his phone, and calls his dad at the station, on his private office line.
“Beacon County Sheriff’s Department, Sheriff Stilinski speaking,” his father greets after one ring.
“Hey, Dad,” Stiles starts, walking back over to the Jeep. His father sighs, and Stiles tries not to take it personally.
“What’s up, kid?” he asks. Stiles can hear the creak of his desk chair that means he’s leant back, prepared for the worst, and he kind of resents that.
“Well,” he starts, fidgeting slightly. “There’s a mysterious package on our stoop.” He listens for any indication that this means something to his dad, but the line goes eerily quiet.
“Dad?” he asks after a long moment of silence. His father clears his throat, blatantly buying time.
“I see,” he starts. Stiles squints suspiciously at his tone, even though he can’t actually see his father. “Well, who is it for?” Stiles frowns even harder.
“Well, it’s addressed to you,” he starts, moving his phone to his other ear so he can pinch it to his shoulder and cross his arms. “Though, they got the actual address wrong, since it went to Mr. Jones across the street.” He hears his father start and stop to speak several times before he continues.
“And who is it from?” Noah asks. Stiles can almost hear him sweating, but chooses not to call him on it.
“Charlie’s Custom Engravings, INC.,” he says plainly. His father lets out a long, low breath.
“I see,” he says, in that parental tone that blatantly indicates he’s trying to hide something. Stiles just isn’t sure what just yet.
“Just thought I’d let you know,” he says. “And make sure it was on purpose, and not a mysterious targeted saboteur.” Noah chokes.
“It’s, uh, not sabotage,” he reassures, but Stiles had already guessed as much. “Just put it on the kitchen counter, I’ll take care of it when I get home.”
“Roger, Pops,” he agrees, picking up the package and holding it under one arm while he unlocks the door. “Kitchen counter it is.”
“Thanks kiddo,” his father says, and they both bid each other goodbye and move on. Or at least, Stiles assumes his father has, since he certainly isn’t letting it go. Thoughts of what could be in the package consume his thoughts for the rest of the evening, through his homework, through dinner, and while he lays in bed at night, trying to sleep.
*****
It’s pretty blatant to Stiles that morning lacrosse practices are literally the worst thing in the world. Murder rampaging alphas be damned, Coach Finstock and his little silver whistle have to be some kind of match made in Hell. At the start, practice didn’t seem like it was going to be quite so horrendous. Six-thirty in the morning start time aside, early practices are often laid back affairs with Coach drowning himself in coffee through the duration and only pausing to bark instructions when they needed to swap warm-ups activities.
Today, however, is something else.
Stiles can’t help but nearly collapse on the bench between activities, wiping away the sweat that’s pouring out of him, pooling in his eyes. It takes a concerted effort to remain upright and not tip right over the back. Somehow, even Scott, crazy werewolf stamina and all, is looking significantly haggard and sweaty. They watch Coach corner someone and blow his whistle at them until they start running again in order to get away.
“Dude,” Stiles whines, flailing an arm vaguely in Scott’s direction. He nods in return, listing slightly to the side before correcting himself.
“I know Coach is, like, insane,” he complains, wincing as Finstock shrilly blows his whistle at another group across the field. The pair watches as the other group literally collapses in a heap, right there in the grass, and their coach blows his whistle again. “But this is, like, actually insane.”
“I think that’s generally what insane means, yeah,” Stiles agrees. He doesn’t want to move, every limb feeling like a dead weight, but almost as if sensing their misery, he can see Coach heading back over already, grinning uncannily brightly.
“Boys,” he greets, enthusiasm somehow making Stiles even more tired. “We’ve still got twenty minutes of practice this morning. Know what that means?” He pauses, waiting for a response from the sweaty mass of teenagers draped across the bench.
“You’re proud of us for working so hard and think we should do quiet happy team building exercises like giant cuddle piles?” Stiles asks, half sarcastic and half beseeching.
“Wrong!” Coach shouts, blowing his whistle immediately after. “It means there’s still time for laps before you hit the showers. Go, go, go!” Everyone groans as they push themselves to their feet. Stiles forces his wobbly knees to hold himself up as straight as he can manage before weakly jogging onto the track.
“Don’t forget!” Coach shouts after them. “There’s still practice after school! See you all here at two o’clock sharp!” There’s another chorus of groaning in return before they’re once again pursued by the piercing shriek of the whistle.
“School doesn’t let out until two oh three,” someone calls out from the crowd. Stiles shakes his head pessimistically.
“Shut up, Greenburg!” Coach yells back, grin still plastered to his face.
*****
Somehow, the rest of the day is even worse. Coach is still riding the same high from that morning in economic class, and Stiles has learned over the course of the day, he’s still blowing his whistle. During class.
When there are other classes also being taught.
He groans to himself when he starts walking towards econ and can hear the faint whistle from the science hallway.
“Dude,” says Scott, flinching beside him. Stiles is glad he’s not also a werewolf, because he can’t imagine how much worse this must be for his furry best friend.
“I know ,” Stiles laments, clapping Scott on the shoulder and heading towards class. Scotts whines loudly, almost doglike, and it takes tremendous effort for Stiles not to comment on it, but even he’s about ready to cry when another whistle wails out.
“Do you, though? Do you really ?” he whines again, and Stiles purses his lips and waits for the piercing sound to finish before talking again.
“Man, between this and all the weird shit with my dad that’s been happening lately, I’d say yeah, I really do,” Stiles points out with a frown. “And after econ, we still have practice .” Scott groans even louder and pauses in the hallway, threatening to collapse where he stands.
“Why’d you have to remind me?” Stiles scoffs but grabs Scott’s arm and drags him to class. He knows that if Scott really didn’t want him to, he’d be able to stop it in a heartbeat, so Stiles elects to pretend he’s still able to yank his friend around.
“I had to remember too, dude, it’s mutually assured destruction,”
“What?” Scott asks, baffled.
“Don’t worry about it.” Stiles rolls his eyes as they approach the classroom door, crossing the threshold to see Coach leaning against his desk and watching miserable students trailing in. There are only a few more minutes before the bell rings to signal the start of class, so they’re some of the last students to arrive. Stiles takes a deep breath and after dropping off Scott and his bag at his desk he trails to the front.
Coach Finstock is watching him approach, with somewhat manic glee, but he waits to see what Stiles wants.
“So,” he starts, swallowing his nerves. “Is that new?” he asks, pointing at the shiny silver whistle still clenched between his teacher’s teeth. He’s almost terrified to be that close to it, but if nobody else is going to try, he might as well take one for the team.
Hah.
Coach grins impossibly wider, finally dropping the whistle to hang from the cord around his neck so he can reply.
“It sure is, Stilinski,” he crows. His chest puffs up as if with pride. “It was a gift, from a very special gift giver. And guess what?”
Stiles watches his coach bare his teeth in a grin that could easily be a threat, and swallows nervously.
“W-what?” he manages to stammer out, sweat beading across his forehead. Finstock’s grin broadens, and Stiles thinks he’s taking a malicious sort of pleasure out of how terrified he is, but tries not to let it get to him.
“It’s got my name on it!” he announces, stuffing the whistle back in his mouth and blowing it. It’s timed perfectly with the last bell, but his proximity to the volume makes his knees wobble and threaten to give out. When the sounds finally stop, his ears are ringing, and he blinks spots out of his eyes. Coach’s hand comes up to none-too-gently clap his shoulder, manually turning around and gesturing him back to his seat. Stiles manages his way to the back, studiously ignoring the puppy-dog-eyes of betrayal Scott is shooting him long after he’s taken his seat.
Despite everything, however, Coach Finstock doesn’t blow the whistle again during class.
Interrogation
It’s been a week since the suspicious package arrived on their doorstep and an uncharacteristically upbeat mood from his father became pervasive. Stiles has been growing antsier and antsier with each passing day, but they always go grocery shopping after school on Fridays since Noah works the late shift, so he firmly expects this all to come to a head sometime soon.
The evidence has been laid out before him in technicolor clarity: it’s obvious that his father is seeing someone. Hushed phone calls, pet names, and inconsequential happenings that normally wouldn’t register but are too frequent to be anything but suspect.
It’s more than just a pattern. It’s proof.
And this grocery trip is clearly going to be the last straw. Stiles does his best to remain covert while they shop, sneakily cataloging the various ingredients his father pulls off the shelves while whistling – whistling! Of all things! – to try and figure out what he’s planning. The grocery run takes longer than normal, though that might be attributed mostly to the fact that Stiles isn’t haranguing his father nearly as much as usual as he’s too focused on his task, so by the time they hit the registers, there’s quite a line. It seems like everyone in Beacon Hills has chosen the same exact time to do their weekly shopping and Stiles frowns sympathetically at the harassed looking teenagers bagging up groceries as fast as they can.
When it’s finally their turn, he starts unloading all the heavy items from the bottom of the cart onto the conveyor belt and his dad helps too, for a moment, before getting visually distracted. Stiles drops the milk on the belt a little too heavily and squints up to see what his dad is looking at.
There’s a small kiosk around the bend with a bunch of cheesy little bouquets of roses.
Yikes.
Stiles grimaces uncomfortably for a moment, grabbing a few more things out of the cart as he watches his dad stare pensively at the flowers. He chews on his lip before grabbing the boxes of cereal they’ve grabbed – heart healthy Cheerios, no honey or nuts included, thank you very much – and sighs to himself.
“You know, I got one of those really lame bouquets of roses for Lydia a couple months ago,” he starts, effectively startling his father into turning and helping again. There’s only veggies, meat, and bread left in the cart, and the belt is full, so they have to wait a bit for the transaction ahead of them to move along so the cashier can start scanning their load. Noah frowns sharply, a hint of pink coloring his cheeks. He eyes Stiles, so he knows he’s got his dad’s attention.
“Yeah, so, she hated it,” he states with a nod, acting as if he’s totally the guy with advice for this particular situation. Generally speaking he really isn’t, but at his dad’s serious and focused expression, he thinks maybe he’s the more savvy of the two regardless. In his father’s defense, he’s been out of the dating scene for at least seventeen years. Give or take. Mostly give.
“Hated it,” Noah repeats, looking a little bit constipated. Stiles nods, knowing that’s his worried face.
“Absolutely detested it,” Stiles emphasizes, finally having space to load the last few groceries on the conveyor. “She said, ‘if you’re going to bring me flowers, they better be something I actually like, and not what the supermarket thinks I do.’ Sage advice, I think.” Noah frowns harder and looks over at the flower display again, then walks off, leaving Stiles with the cart slowly filling with bagged groceries and no way to pay.
“Wh- Hey! Dad!” he shouts, flabbergasted. His dad just waves a hand and darts around the back side of the flower display, out of sight. Stiles just stares after him, jaw agape, and flails wildly when the cashier announces the total.
“Yeah, sorry, my dad literally just ditched me here, uhm, I think he’s grabbing something else?” The teen at the counter just rolls her eyes and turns to arrange some ‘no bag’ stickers while she waits. Stiles pouts but he’s pretty sure she’s a freshman so he really shouldn’t be surprised by the attitude. It’s not even a full minute later when his dad jogs back over looking pleased as punch and holding out a bouquet to get scanned in. The cashier does, lets Noah hang onto the flowers, and repeats their new total. Stiles eyebrows climb into his hairline when he sees it’s jumped over fourteen dollars.
“Christ, Dad, this mystery person better be worth it,” he mutters under his breath.
“Hm? What’s that?” Noah returns, looking over from the little keypad he’s just finished up at. Stiles rolls his eyes with his entire body.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” he snarks, darting under his father’s arms to snatch the carriage and start pushing it towards the door.
“Slow down, kiddo, my knees aren’t what they used to be,” he calls, jogging lightly after him. Stiles just laughs, giving the cart a good push and riding on the back, nearly tipping the entire basket in the process. Noah scowls at him fiercely, but Stiles just scratches at his cheek and shrugs.
“Oops?”
*****
Later that evening, once all the groceries have been put away and there’s still an hour or so left to prepare dinner, Stiles wanders back into the kitchen. His father is puttering around, whistling while he goes, and Stiles is struck for a moment with the realization that he hasn’t seen his father this happy since before his mother died.
It’s a bit melancholy, knowing that it took a brand new romance to get his dad’s spirits up that high again, but he knows it’s not his fault that’s what’s making him happy. He leans against the table, watching his father be totally focused on his work. He’s clearly trying to put together something a bit more special than their typical Friday night roast, though the pre-cooked chicken is still there, freed from its packaging and nestled in a glass casserole dish. He watches his father cut potatoes, dicing them carefully, and dumping each handful into the strainer sitting in the sink beside him.
Meat, check.
Potatoes, check.
Stiles glances back at the counter and notes the can of ready-to-bake biscuits warming there.
Bread, check.
“What’s the veggie tonight?” he asks, muffling his laughter as his father jumps in place, whirling around so fast Stiles is momentarily worried about whiplash.
“Jesus, kid, you’re gonna give me a heart attack,” Noah snipes, holding a hand to his chest for a moment before turning back to what he was doing. “Uhh, I was thinkin’ broccoli, that’s pretty easy and tastes good, can’t really go wrong with it.” Stiles hums in agreement.
“We just got asparagus right?” he asks, getting up to check the fridge anyway. His dad hums from the counter.
“Pretty sure. Why?” Stiles backs out of the fridge, arms laden with ingredients, including the bundle of asparagus.
“You should make that roasted garlic asparagus you did the other week, from the pinterest recipe?” Noah turns and watches as Stiles dumps the asparagus, a clove of garlic, the little jar of minced garlic, and a stick of butter on the counter.
“Not a bad idea, but what if I burn it? It’s awfully fancy for a dinner at home, too…” he trails off, frowning. Stiles rolls his eyes but starts prepping the asparagus.
“Dad, you bought flowers,” he starts, gesturing with the kitchen knife he’d sniped from the block behind the coffee maker. It’s sharper than the one his dad always uses, but that one is older than Stiles, so he’s pretty sure it’s mostly out of habit that it still gets used. “Clearly you wanna impress whoever is coming over, right? Make the fancy veggie. It tastes good, it’s good for you. You’re not gonna burn it.” Noah nods, finishes dicing the potatoes, and moves to the sink to rinse off all the extra starch. When that’s done, he gets out their big pot and sets it beside the potato colander to fill with water.
Stiles goes ahead and finds their other glass casserole dish. It’s blue and doesn’t match the one with the chicken in it, but it’ll look nicer than the flimsy metal baking sheet they’d normally use. Once Noah has the pot on the stove and has tossed in a bouillon cube, he steps back to survey the kitchen, glancing at his watch.
“Jeeze,” he mutters, moving to see how far Stiles has gotten with the veggies. Mostly Stiles has rinsed the greens and peels back the skin on a few cloves of garlic. Stiles rolls his eyes again and steps back out of the way. His dad reaches in the cabinet over his head and pulls out some olive oil to lightly coat the bottom of the baking dish.
“This will never get done in time,” he complains, cracking in some black pepper and the weird pink salt his son keeps insisting he buy.
“When is the new boo coming over?” Stiles asks, buttering a baking sheet and laying out the rolls. These have to come out absolutely last, so once they’re on the tray he’s going to stick them back in the fridge for maximum flaky layered goodness.
“The what?” his dad asks with a grimace. Stiles snorts and Noah rolls his eyes. “Company will be here at six.” Stiles nods.
“Okay, so, we’ve still got 30 minutes,” he points out, looking at everything. “The stove is preheated, so the chicken should go in now. It’s already cooked but it’s the biggest piece. You can pull it out right before six, so it can rest and not pee on anybody.”
“The chicken won’t be peeing on anything, Stiles. What the heck?” Stiles snorts a laugh.
“You can say ‘fuck’, Dad, I won’t call the cops on you.” Noah levels a steep glare at him, causing Stiles to giggle hysterically. “ Again .” His dad sighs loudly and rolls his eyes.
“The veggies only need about ten minutes in the oven, same with the biscuits, so I can put them in at twenty and ten of,” Noah says as he straightens after putting the chicken and asparagus in the oven. “Potatoes will be done in about fifteen minutes, so I can mash them after putting in the biscuits.” Stiles leans back against the counter and folds his arms comfortably, watching his dad puzzle through the plan. Noah nods to himself and looks over the room, color suddenly draining from his face.
“Oh god, where are the rolls?” he gasps, looking around and bodily moving Stiles out of the way to check behind him. Stiles laughs loudly.
“Chill out, old man,” he teases before slapping the front of the fridge, nearly knocking a little ceramic magnet to the floor. “The biscuits are in here, chilling cuz it’s so hot in here with the oven going. They’re already on a butter sheet so you just have to toss them in at the end.” Noah nods slowly, but still opens the fridge to check.
“Huh.” He smiles slightly and pats Stiles on the shoulder. “Good thinkin’.” Stiles smiles warmly in return.
“When are you getting changed?” he asks, nudging his father with his shoulder. Noah frowns.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” he asks, looking down at his work khakis and plain shirt. Stiles rolls his eyes even harder.
“Okay, it’s all well and good for like, going around town,” he concedes before giving his father a very deliberate once over. “For a date? Not so much.” Noah’s cheek color in embarrassment.
“Well gee, don’t worry about subtlety,” he snarks. Stiles grins.
“Never do, Pops!” Noah rolls his eyes and checks his watch, turning to check the asparagus through the glass door. “Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll finish up while you get ready.” Noah purses his lips and it’s clear from his expression that he wants to argue, but he’s too stressed and nervous to do so. Stiles smiles softly to himself before waving his father off to go upstairs.
“And maybe spritz on some of that fancy aftershave you only wear on special occasions!” he calls after him.
“I don’t need any help, Stiles,” his father calls down in return. Stiles smiles, checks the time on his phone, and sets a timer. He doesn’t really understand why his father doesn’t bother with them yet, but that really might have been because he was so distracted. He didn’t even correct Stiles when he called someone coming over for dinner a date.
He pauses and considers.
Huh. Maybe it really is a date?
If that’s the case, however, why is he invited? After a few moments, his phone chimes, so he grabs the potholders and pulls out the asparagus. He leaves the oven open before wrenching open the fridge and grabbing the cold metal of the biscuit tray, shoving it quickly through the door and closing it, quickly checking the timer on his phone and resetting it. The potatoes are just about ready to come out so he rinses down the sink and sets up the colander before freezing mid motion.
“Oh, God,” he mutters to himself. “This is like the single dad version of meeting the parents. It’s meeting the kids .” He can feel the color draining from his own face at the realization before staunchly shaking his head, ridding himself of the thought. This is his chance to meet whatever kind of person has somehow so thoroughly seduced his father he’s buying grocery store bouquets and taking Stiles’ dating advice.
This is a truly golden opportunity to confirm his suspicions.
*****
At six o’clock sharp, Noah is back downstairs in light wash jeans and a nicer tee shirt with a clean button up over top. Stiles looks at his outfit with his eyebrows raised, looks at his own outfit, and waits patiently as his dad turns around and buttons up the shirt after tucking in the tails.
At five past six, he’s wearing a hole through the carpet in the living room, and Stiles is setting the table with the good china, by which he means plates that match and don’t have any chips taken out of them. He even goes so far as to set each place with a napkin and two glasses, one for water and one for wine.
He puts a wine glass at his own place as well, even though he’s pretty sure he won’t get away with it. Before his father can stress any further, the doorbell rings through the entire first floor and is followed by a sharp knock. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, going into the pantry to pull out a bottle of wine that’s been sitting there for longer than he’s been interested in alcohol, so he can’t see who walks through the door. He curses his timing for a moment but does his best to listen in.
“Oh, wow ,” he hears in a sharp and familiar voice. “Wouldja look at this spread, huh?” Stiles frowns, making sure he’s got a corkscrew, and walks back into the dining room. His dad is standing behind his chair at the head of the table, beet red and flustered, and his coach is standing slightly beside him, eyes wild but hair surprisingly tame.
Well, tame for him at least.
“Hey, Coach,” Stiles greets, confused, eyes darting back and forth between the new arrival and his father. Noah doesn’t give anything away to imply his teacher’s presence is unwelcome, just clears his throat and somehow turns even redder. Stiles waits for a moment, aware of the uncomfortable rise in tension, and attempts a smile. His Coach grins even wider, somehow, and claps his hands together.
“Well, ain’t this a chatty bunch,” he remarks before unzipping his windbreaker and shirking it off before draping it over the back of the chair that Stiles had picked for whoever his father was having over. Stiles looks at the jacket, then looks at his father. His father seems nervous, but in no way annoyed, which, if Bobby Finstock’s presence was unexpected on such a high stakes evening, he would be. Stiles then looks up at his coach, who is wearing the ugliest plaid shirt Stiles has ever seen – which is truly saying something, considering his wardrobe – that’s buttoned up properly and tucked into some khakis, and the bright and shiny new whistle he’d been blowing relentlessly at practice the other day, just because he could.
Suddenly, it all clicks.
The unbridled enthusiasm towards Stiles during their last practice.
The mysterious package from Custom Engravers.
The sweet nothings over short phone calls he kept overhearing.
Cupcake.
Bobby.
“Oh, God ,” he mutters quietly to himself, taking it all in. “Wow, I am, like, a total idiot.” Noah looks alarmed for a moment, but Coach has already leaned over to pat his shoulder.
“Come on, kid,” he reassures. “You’re a spaz and a total weirdo, but you’re smart as hell.” Stiles just stares at him, slack-jawed. Noah clears his throat.
“Well, uh, dinner is gonna get cold, so,” he trails off, tapping his fingers over the back of his chair and looking between the two other men before thumbing over his shoulder and darting into the kitchen. Stiles shakes his head, both fond and exasperated. His coach grins at him, and Stiles refuses to let himself be uncomfortable, so he gestures to the chair he’s in front of and rounds the table to take a seat himself.
“Wine?” he offers, holding up the bottle from before. Coach holds up a hand and shakes his head.
“I’ll pass,” he says, smiling much more pleasantly. “That stuff is dangerous business.” Stiles just blinks a few times and tries to smile back, setting the bottle down on the table to wait for his dad to decide whether or not to open it. Noah comes back into the room armed with potholders and carrying both the chicken and the asparagus. He puts them down on the designated trivets Stiles had put out earlier and runs back into the kitchen. Stiles watches Coach watch his father walk away, trying to scrutinize his surprisingly indiscernible smile. As if summoned, he turns to look at Stiles and raises both brows.
“He cooks, he cleans up well, and he’s got a job and a killer sense of humor, what’s not to like, right?” He shrugs, unbothered, and waits as Noah brings out the rolls and mashed potatoes, setting them out and finally taking a seat. Slowly, everyone begins serving themselves, Noah taking on the responsibility of carving the chicken so everyone can snag as much as they desire.
“So,” Stiles starts, once his plate is full and he’s had time to cut up his piece of chicken and bury it in the potatoes. His father pauses in the middle of buttering a roll and looks over at him. Stiles pointedly moves his gaze from his father to their guest. “How, uh, long has this been going on?” Noah purses his lips, but Coach sits back in his chair, biscuit in hand.
“Funny story, actually,” he starts and Noah sighs. Stiles raises his brows and glances between them a few times. “I was shamelessly flirting through the entire parent-teacher conference, but with all that chaos at the end there, forget to give him my number. So I ended up calling the station and asking him out for coffee. Everything after that? Swiss cheese.” Stiles frowns, squinting at his coach and trying to discern the meaning. Noah blows out a long breath.
“He actually called the wrong station, got the folks down in Santa Monica somehow, and they started a whole phone chain trying to figure out who the ‘lucky sheriff’ was.” Coach throws his head back and laughs loud, authentically, and Stiles watches as his father smiles to himself.
“In my defense, Stilinskis seem to be allergic to first names,” he says, finally grabbing his fork and knife and cutting into his plate. Like Stiles, he cuts up his chicken and starts burying it in his mashed potatoes, but he does it to his asparagus too. Noah watches him do it fondly. Stiles watches his father watching his coach, and tries not to feel weird about it.
“Speaking of names, though,” he starts, gesturing with his fork. “This is damn good, by the way. This asparagus is excellent. Ya know my mom used to grow her own? That shit sprouts up like you wouldn’t believe.” He shovels a bite into his mouth as both Stilisnkis stare with the same sort of confused pout on their faces. Coach looks between them as he chews and swallows and pauses for a moment.
“Oh! Yeah! Speaking of names, right.” He lifts a fork and points it directly at Stiles with a relatively direct expression. “When we’re out here in the big, wide world, you can call me Bobby. None of that ‘Coach Finstock’ stuff. It’s kinda weird.” Stiles blinks slowly at him and nods his head. It seems to be good enough because Bobby just grins and takes another bite, prompting the Stilinskis to do the same.
The table is quiet for a moment while everyone eats. The meal really is delicious, and Stiles is pretty proud of himself, despite only helping at the end. He makes a mean mashed potato if he says so himself. Once their plates are starting to clear, the atmosphere relaxes. It’s pretty hard to stay anxious when your stomach is full of good food. Bobby takes a moment to lick some potatoes off his knife and Noah accidentally spills his water down his shirt. Bobby stares and Stiles snorts into his potatoes as Noah grabs his napkin and pats his shirt dry, cursing.
“Sorry about that,” he offers, glancing between Bobby and his son. Stiles shrugs and Bobby grins, eyelids half lowered.
“I was kinda hoping your shirt was going with it for a moment,” he teases, and Stiles drops his fork on the table. Noah flushes bright red and can’t hold Bobby’s gaze while he tilts his head back and laughs uproariously. “Damn, it feels really good to have this kind of rapport with someone, ya know? It’s been a while. You’re cute when you look like a tomato.” If possible Noah flushes even redder and his eyes are resolutely on his lap. Stiles clears his throat loudly, and the pitch is uncomfortably high.
“Are you fucking serious?!” he asks incredulously. Bobby snorts.
“No, I’m fucking your dad.” The entire table falls silent and Stiles can feel heat radiating off of his face. The conversation is drawn into a long, awkward pause until Noah finally manages to clear his throat.
“Anyways,” he squeaks out, desperate not to think of his father in any compromising positions with his economics teacher. “Bobby here seems to be getting a lot of use out of that shiny new whistle of his.” He’s desperate for a change of topic and hopes implying to his father he knows where that came from does the trick. When Bobby grins like a feral cat, however, he fears what he’s unleashed.
“Ohhh yeah,” he agrees, voice a little rough. He points a coy smirk at Noah and fingers at the silver hanging from his throat. “Wanna see me blow it?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows. Stiles thinks it is the least sexy thing he has ever seen in his life, and he’s seen his elderly neighbor flirt with his dad over underwear. His father, however, has to take a moment to clear his throat.
“Maybe, uh, maybe later, Bobby,” Noah says, subtly adjusting his napkin on his lap. Stiles thinks he has never felt more mortified. Bobby, however, immediately frowns.
“Whaddya mean, ‘Bobby’?” he asks, with what is almost a pout. “I’m not Bobby. Who’s Bobby?” For what it’s worth, Stiles thinks, at least Noah looks almost as mortified as he feels. He watches the scene with morbid curiosity, like driving down a highway when there’s been a crash in the other lane. Noah licks at his lips, and leans down.
“Maybe later, Cupcake,” he says quietly. Stiles takes it back. Now he has never been more mortified. Bobby lets his pout morph into a wild grin again.
“Any time you want, Sheriff,” he says, and his voice is doing the grumbly thing again, and it’s clear he’s making some bold implications, and Stiles has decided he has had enough. He picks up his plate, shovels everything he can into his mouth, and abruptly stands, marching into the kitchen to get rid of his plate. Noah stares after him for a moment until Stiles storms back in and kisses the top of his father’s head.
“I’m gonna go over Scott’s I won’t be back tonight bye I love you don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he says all at once, in a rush, and he storms to the front hall to grab his keys and take off. He doesn’t bother packing a bag. He never wants to be faced with that much sexual tension coming off his father ever again. He is perfectly content to never ever think about that situation ever again.
Much later, when he’s tucked up on Scott’s couch in borrowed pajamas and getting ready to turn off his phone since he didn’t pack a charger, he thinks about that dinner again. Before he powers down, he opens up a text to his dad.
Stiles: coach is kinda crazy but hes a good guy and im happy for u. U deserve good things ok?
It only takes a moment but his father texts him back. Stiles refuses to think about why he’s still awake.
Daddio: thnx kiddo he makes me happy love u goodnite
Stiles: goodnight pops be safe! love u too
Epilogue
The rain is pounding down in heaving waves by the time Stiles makes it to the front door. He doesn’t bother knocking to announce his arrival, certain that even if he did, the sound of the rain would simply drown it out, so he twists the knob and pushes. It’s not locked and opens easily, even though he’s told his father hundreds of times not to leave it unlocked for him even when he’s running late. He’s only upset for a moment, though, the reality of his sopping wet clothing and lack of key setting in.
He sighs, toeing off his saturated sneakers at the door, just like he used to every day after school. It’s been a long time since he’s indulged in the routine since the shoes he wears for work and toes off in his own apartment are much too nice to justify crushing the heels on, and he can’t help but to smile at his feet. He’s caught up in reminiscing fondly for a long moment before he catches himself, frowning at the lack of interruption. The house is dark from the storm outside, but it’s not actually late enough in the evening for anyone to have gone to sleep, so his hackles are on edge before he can help it.
All the lights are off, but there’s a dim light coming from around the corner in the living room. He sets down his work bag, shooting a lazy glare at the offending item since it contains the sources of his tardiness, the case at work driving the entire department to the brink, and rests his hand on the service weapon still holstered at his side. He rarely uses it since being an FBI investigator rarely sees him in the field these days, but one never knows when they’ll need an emergency defense, especially when sneaking around in the retired local sheriff’s home.
He eases socked feet across the hardwood, doing his best to slide without squelching anywhere, and peers around the corner. The TV is on, volume muted, as some miscellaneous sport plays on the screen. Before Stiles can look too much further, he spots the slumped form of his father on the couch. As he steps around the furniture to take in the full picture, he spots Bobby trapped beneath his father, arm indulgently wrapped around his waist. They lock eyes for a moment, and Bobby raises a hand up to hold a finger to his lips, shushing Stiles.
He rolls his eyes but accepts the instruction, letting his shoulders relax as the tension bleeds out. Bobby and his father have been married for fifteen years now, and Stiles is both honored and still a little confused to say he was able to walk his father down the aisle. It was a quiet affair, barely more than an elopement, but Stiles would never forget his father’s face when Noah spotted Bobby waiting at the altar. Pure, radiant happiness in a way he hadn’t seen in over a decade.
Bobby is weird. Calling him weird almost feels like an understatement, but as Stiles packs away his things and starts puttering around the kitchen, putting together a nice – albeit, very late – dinner for them all to share, he thinks his old high school coach is probably the best thing that could have happened. Life has been hard, fraught with chaos and danger at every turn, but having someone at home that can get you to smile really makes the daily grind that much more worth it.
Stiles sighs to himself as he turns on the oven, rolling up his sleeves to finish chopping some vegetables, and tries to keep as quiet as possible. Despite his best attempts, shortly after the roast is in the oven, Noah pads into the kitchen on sleepy socked feet.
“Hey, kiddo,” he greets, muffling a yawn behind his hand. “When’d you get in?” Stiles smiles indulgently at his father and gestures for him to take a seat. Noah grumbles about it but still pulls out a chair. He has a harder time staying up these days, but he’s still pretty healthy for a man in his seventies. Stiles would like to thank his heart conscious cooking, but he thinks he has more to thank Bobby and his incessant ability to make his father smile.
“Not too long, I got right to making dinner.” Noah frowns at him from behind thick glasses and almost pouts.
“Son, why are you cooking me dinner in my own kitchen?” he barks, crossing his arms across his chest. Before Stiles can do more than laugh, Bobby stomps into the kitchen.
“Because you’re old as shit,” he nags, gently whacking Noah’s arm. Noah tries to pout even harder, but a smile is already tugging at his lips. Stiles rolls his eyes but smiles indulgently at the pair. Bobby’s hair is completely white now, and Stiles has been bugging him to dress up as Doc from Back to the Future for the past five Halloweens. Bobby says he has no idea what Stiles is talking about, but he’s certain he’s caught the old man’s gaze lingering longer and longer on the lab coats he’s pulled up on Amazon for him.
“I might be old, but I can still make my son a nice, home-cooked dinner,” Noah comments drily, rolling his eyes. Stiles laughs again.
“Yeah, well, you were napping on the couch when I got in, so I figured you wouldn’t really mind.”
“Course he doesn’t,” Bobby agrees. “He just thinks he has to protest or you’ll figure out how lazy he really is.”
“Bobby!” Noah scolds, but he’s smiling even wider. Stiles hides his own smiles as he stirs a pot on the stove. “What about your partner? Are they coming by?” Stiles nods absently before stepping back to check the watch on his wrist.
“Yep!” he agrees, turning away from the stove to wait for everything to cook. “Should be here in five, dinner will be done in ten.” Noah nods, groaning as he lifts up from his chair.
“Lemme at least set the table,” he tries, but Bobby is tutting and pushing him back down. Stiles and Noah share a look for a moment before Bobby bustles over, shooing Stiles out of the kitchen.
“Absolutely not,” he snarks, reaching up and pulling dishes out of the cabinet. “You’re too old to do menial buswork.” Noah rolls his eyes.
“Bobby, I’m not even two years older than you.” Bobby tuts in response.
“Yeah, which means you’re old,” he continues, placing the dishes on the table along with some silverware. “Besides, I know you’re just trying to get out of dish duty later.” Stiles blows out a long, low whistle as Noah flushes.
“Trying to get out of dish duty, huh?” he questions, smirking. “Tut, tut, Daddio, how irresponsible.” Bobby throws both hands in the air.
“I know, right?” he exclaims. “The shit I put up with. Madness, I tell ya.” Stiles snorts, then he and his father both laugh loudly as Bobby fusses with the dishes. After a short while, Stiles comes over and leans on the back of his father’s chair.
“I’m glad you’re happy, Dad,” he says as they both watch Bobby continue to fuss.
“Me too, kid,” Noah agrees. “Me too.”